


Good Old-Fashioned Nightmare

by lucky_spike



Series: Armageddon and the Associated Entities [7]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aspec Friendly, Dreams and Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:22:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29543724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucky_spike/pseuds/lucky_spike
Summary: Aziraphale realizes Crowley is having a nightmare and wakes him up. Aziraphale wasn't sure what he was expecting the nightmare to be, but it wasn'tthat.-Note that while this is part of a series of fics, it stands alone well and can be easily read as a one-shot! Dive in!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Armageddon and the Associated Entities [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1530020
Comments: 13
Kudos: 62





	Good Old-Fashioned Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> If you've read my other fics, this one takes place shortly after [The Fatal American Need (to have a pretty good time)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22872292/chapters/54667666), but you certainly don't need to read that fic at all to understand this one.

Sleeping was never something Aziraphale cared for much. He’d tried it once or twice, even nodded off when it felt like it would be a particularly nice thing to do, but in the end he always woke back up after not much time feeling foggy and restless, and disinclined to try sleeping again.

That didn’t mean, however, that he never used the expansive bed they had in their South Downs cottage. Because Crowley  _ very much _ liked sleeping, and Aziraphale rather liked Crowley, and so Aziraphale had insisted on the bed being replete with enough pillows to allow him to prop up and read comfortably while Crowley slept, should he want to. Crowley, who rather liked Aziraphale as well and “didn’t mind” the company (they both knew this was a vast understatement), had only been too happy to oblige. Besides, on the occasions when Aziraphale didn’t join Crowley in the cold winter months, the pillows apparently made for  _ excellent _ warmth and burrowing. 

This was not the case on this particular day, however. Even though it was quite dark outside - the middle of the night, with thick clouds obscuring the moon and the stars - it was still warm, being July. Humid, too - having just returned from America, on a  _ storm-chasing _ excursion of all things (well, really an Adam-watching excursion, but as the boy had been storm-chasing …), Aziraphale was aware that there would probably be storms in a few hours, as the night continued to cool and the clouds continued to gather. Which made being in bed next to Crowley, nestled up against some pillows with his wings out and a book in his lap, all the more pleasant.

The demon was to his left, as always, laying flat on his belly with his face pressed into the mattress. His own wings were out as well, his left sprawled across the bed and his right half-draped over the edge and hanging onto the floor. It was terribly undignified, and Aziraphale smiled at the entire tableau when he paused to turn the page. 

He’d read through about four more chapters when a distant, muffled rumble of thunder sounded outside. Crowley stirred a bit, not waking, but Aziraphale stroked a hand down the demon’s wing and he settled back to stone-like stillness. Aziraphale himself shifted his weight a bit, the better to sink down into the pillows and let his feet slip under Crowley’s feathers while the first drops of rain began to patter on the roof. 

When Crowley next stirred, Aziraphale assumed it was because the thunder had grown rather louder in the intervening minutes. The angel frowned, looked away from his page, and ran his fingers through Crowley’s hair. At the same time, he pressed out a gentle miracle to dampen the sound in their bedroom, the better to let Crowley sleep. It was unusual for something external to wake the demon - he’d been known to sleep through alarms, fires, even entire world wars - but perhaps the recent trip to America had prompted him to be a bit more aware of thunderstorms. After a few seconds, Crowley appeared to settle, and Aziraphale nodded to himself, satisfied that the sound-dampening miracle would do the trick.

He’d only managed to read about four more pages when Crowley stirred again, and this time it was  _ not _ just a restless little shift under the covers. There was no sound - Crowley  _ did _ talk in his sleep sometimes, but not now - as the demon twisted his fists into the pillow and rolled onto his side, wings drawn around himself protectively. His face was twisted up into an expression Aziraphale was familiar with: anxiety, and grief. He remembered Crowley knelt at the airfield, watching his Bentley burn, and found his partner’s current expression an unwelcome reminder of that dreadful day.

“Right,” he murmured, closing his book with a snap and setting it carefully on the nightstand. “Time to wake up, dear boy.” With a firm hand, he shook Crowley’s shoulder until the demon’s yellow eyes fluttered open, nearly glowing in the soft light of Aziraphale’s reading lamp.

“Wsfu, ange - huh?” Oh, thought Aziraphale, excellent. Just a dream, easily forgotten. He opened his mouth to say as much, to apologize for waking him but plead his case that Crowley hadn’t looked to be  _ enjoying _ his sleep, when suddenly Crowley sat up, wings flapping wildly for a few beats as he realized he was off-balance with them out, and then gone as he tucked them back onto the other plane and stumbled out of bed with no small amount of urgency.

Aziraphale, taken off-guard, stared after Crowley as the demon hurried from the room for a second before folding his own wings away and scrambling after him. “ _ Crowley! _ Crowley!” With Crowley still apparently only half-awake, Aziraphale was able to catch up to his friend before he’d managed to fumble the doorknob open. “Crowley, it’s alright, we’re at the cottage, you’re alright, it was just a -”

“The Bentley,” Crowley insisted urgently as he finally swung the door open and rushed into the hall. “It’sss the Bentley, I’ve got to -”

Aziraphale frowned and followed, hovering just off Crowley’s right shoulder. “Dear boy, your car is quite alright - Adam put it all back, remember? She’s right as rain.”

“Of  _ course  _ I remember that,” Crowley returned irritably, slowing only to glare at the angel over his shoulder. “No, but it’s - it was jussst a dream, have to make sure that’s all …”

They were nearly to the kitchen now, but as soon as Crowley had said that he  _ remembered _ , Aziraphale stopped hurrying to keep up. It was just a dream, he was alright, this was all for his own peace of mind. That was alright then. With considerably less urgency, he padded the rest of the way down the hall and into the kitchen, where he saw Crowley standing at the window, leaning heavily on the counter and staring out through the rain at his beloved car.

He came to stand next to his partner at the counter, hands folded behind his back. “There she is,” he said, voice calm and even as a flash of lightning illuminated the black Bentley parked at the curb. “Just as you left her yesterday, in tip-top shape.”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Crowley slumped forward, let his elbows rest on the counter, and entwined his fingers in his hair. “Just a dream. Knew it. I’d never sell her.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “ _ Sell _ her? No, unless you’ve not told me, you haven’t sold her. Go on back to bed, dear; it’s just the wee hours, you have plenty of sleep left in the night.”

Crowley snorted and turned to look at Aziraphale, half a wry grin on his face. “Nah. Not feeling much like sleeping anymore tonight, angel. Think I’ll … watch a film, or something.”

“Would you like me to put on some coffee?”

“That’d be alright.”

While Aziraphale busied himself with the coffee, Crowley stayed at the counter a bit longer, probably reassuring himself that the hulking black form of his car wasn’t a figment of his considerable imagination, before he slunk to the breakfast table and slithered into one of the chairs. 

“What was it about?” Aziraphale asked casually, as he measured out the coffee grounds into the beaker of the press. “Your dream, I mean - do you remember it?”

“Oh, yeah, ‘course I do.” He heard the demon scratching at the wooden table in the ensuing seconds of silence. “S’nothing. Pretty silly, honestly.”

“It certainly had you upset.”

“Yeah, well.” Aziraphale turned around to watch as Crowley shrugged and spread his hands. “Dreams can be like that.”

“I’d like to hear what it was.”

“I told you, it’s -”

“ _ If only _ ,” he said, pouring the hot water into the press and capping it to brew, “so I can be properly upset about you interrupting my reading. I didn’t even mark my place, and I was so disturbed by you that I’m sure I’ll have to re-read to find where I was.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Oh,  _ forgive me _ . I’ll try not to inconvenience you next time I hallucinate in my sleep, you bastard.”

“I’d be obliged.” Aziraphale set a mug down in front of the demon - pre-warmed by miracle, of course - and put the press on the table between them. Once he had taken his own seat, he folded his hands on the table and, in spite of Crowley’s annoyed glare, smiled widely. “Now go on and tell me what had you so upset.”

“You’ll laugh.”

“Hm. Would that be so bad?”

Crowley huffed. “Possibly.” He looked down at the table and let his forked tongue flick out, scenting the still-brewing coffee, before he murmured, “I had to sell the Bentley.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale nodded. “Yes, I’d assumed as much. What happened?”

“Some investments went bad.” Crowley waved a hand. “I can’t  _ go _ bankrupt, of course, but I  _ did _ , and … and that bloody man from Tadfield that’s always giving Adam a hard time - what’s-his-face, PT Taylor or something - showed up and I had to sell my bloody car. Or trade it, I suppose.”

“Oh, dear.” Aziraphale nodded sympathetically. “That would be rather upsetting, I’d imagine. You traded it to pay off your debts? Did they give you another car?”

Crowley snarled. “ _ Yes _ ,” he said, rather more viciously than Aziraphale had expected. The angel’s eyebrows shot up, taken aback. “They bloody well did, said it was all I could afford anymore on account of  _ being bankrupt _ , and it was awful. It was -” he seized the handle of the press and shoved the plunger down with rather more force than necessary, eliciting a little squeak of protest from the filter apparatus within, “- you remember those hideous little French cars back in the ‘50s? 1950s?” he clarified. “The bloody - what were they called again? Tin snails, I remember that, but the brand was … Lemons or something?” His brow furrowed. “Lemons, le - no, wait, lemons … citrus - Citroen! Right, the Citroens, you remember them?”

“Afraid I don’t,” said Aziraphale solemnly. He watched Crowley slosh some coffee into his mug and take a swig. “I gather they weren’t very good.”

“They were  _ awful _ ,” Crowley groaned. “Terrible things, barely any horsepower, top speed was something like 30 miles per hour, looked like a dustbin on wheels, and the  _ colors _ they came in.” He made a face. “Awful. Anyway, it was one of those -”

“Oh, dear.”

“No, it gets worse.” Crowley leaned his elbows onto the table. “It was one of those, but a  _ tiny, remote-controlled one _ .” He held his hands out, roughly a foot apart. “You know, like the little toys the kids next door have? They use the little remotes to drive them around, always get them stuck under our hedges.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale swallowed, tightly, trying desperately to choke down the laughter that was threatening to burst out of him. “I can see how that would be v - very  _ upsetting _ to -”

“It was  _ yellow _ !”

That did it. Aziraphale didn’t have nearly the imagination Crowley did, but he was able to picture the demon well enough, standing in front of the cottage, looking devastated with a little remote control in hand, all the while piloting a tiny yellow car around on the pavement. He burst out laughing.

Crowley glared at him over the rim of his mug. “Told you you’d laugh.”

“I’m sorry, Crowley, I tried not to but really just … just a little yellow car and you having to drive it with a remote …” he burst into another fit of giggles, burying his face in his hands. “Crowley, I’m so sorry, I know you’re upset but -”

“Nah, go on.” The demon sighed, and Aziraphale’s laughter intensified. “Suppose it is fairly ridiculous.”

“And you thought it was real when you woke?” he asked, stifling his laughter. “You must have, you were really very upset. I’m so sorry, Crowley, really.”

Crowley waved his free hand. “Well that was the thing, wasn’t it? I kept telling myself it was a dream, I’d never let the Bentley go short of Armageddon, but then  _ in the dream _ I’d think I woke up and I’d go out and there the stupid little car would be!” Aziraphale started chuckling again. “Happened like, three or four times!”

“Oh, Crowley.”

“Don’t you ‘ _ Oh, Crowley _ ’ me, you bastard,” he grumbled. The grumbling - half indecipherable - only intensified when Aziraphale reached across the table to let his hand clasp around Crowley’s bony one.

“I truly am  _ very sorry _ that you were so upset,” Aziraphale said, earnestly, although he was still grinning ear-to-ear. “I’m glad I woke you up and put an end to it. But … but you  _ do _ realize that it is rather funny, yes? I mean, not the part where you were upset, but just the entire image of the little car?”

Crowley stared at his coffee for a second before he sighed. “It’s hilarious,” he admitted. “If it happened to anyone else I’d probably laugh so hard I’d have to sit down.” He set his mug down and scrubbed his face with his hand. “Bloody Heaven, the only thing that would be worse would be if it were Newt’s daft excuse for a car.”

“I don’t know, his car  _ is _ better at poetry than yours.”

“You take that back.”

“I shan’t.” He squeezed the demon’s hand. “But I would suggest that perhaps for breakfast we take the Bentley out somewhere? I’m sure you’ll feel better once you drive it again.”

Crowley shrugged. “Yeah, probably will do. Could always go out now.” He looked out of the window and, with a tremendous sense of timing, a bolt of lightning cracked the sky and illuminated the front garden being absolutely soaked with fat, driving rain. “Euch.”

“Or you could watch telly until the little cafe south of Tangmere opens and we could drive down then. They do have such lovely pastries, and if I recall you quite liked their boiled eggs.” He softened. “They even leave the shells on for you, remember?”

For a moment, the only sound was the rain pelting against the windowpane while Crowley glowered at the angel. Slowly, the demon took a sip of coffee, still not letting go of Aziraphale’s hand, and then he said, “Fine. Alright.” The touch was gone, and Crowley stood, coffee in hand. “I’ll be in the den, get me when you’re ready.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Of course. And Crowley,  _ please _ don’t go out in the rain - you’ll get soaked, and you know how cold you get when -”

“I  _ won’t _ , angel, honestly,” Crowley huffed. “It was just a dream. I’ll be watching telly.”

“Alright.” 

It wasn’t long after that Aziraphale heard the opening theme of  _ Top Gear _ start playing rather loudly from the den. Quite loud, really, considering that Crowley had excellent hearing, and rarely needed to turn the volume up beyond the first click or two.

Loud enough that Aziraphale  _ nearly _ didn’t hear the front door’s insistently squeaky hinges a moment later. He shook his head, smiling ruefully, and got up to boil another pot of water.

**Author's Note:**

> Based on an actual dream I had the other night where I had to sell my lovely wonderful car and they gave me a little remote-controlled sedan in return. :(


End file.
